


Lovesick

by KamikazeSoundSociety



Series: The Depravity Series [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Choking, Come Marking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Established Relationship, Facials, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Somnophilia, Unhealthy Relationships, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 06:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamikazeSoundSociety/pseuds/KamikazeSoundSociety
Summary: He would never dare to do this if his boy were awake. When he's awake, Percival wants nothing more than toworshiphis darling, press kisses to every part of him, slow and sweet and kind like nothing Credence has ever experienced before. But the scars of his imprisonment run deep; some nights, he cannot sleep, a monster screaming inside his mind. On those nights, he wants to wreck this darling angel, leave him ruined and shattered so that he can build him back up how God built man in His image.But he cannot do that. Credence deserves better. He deserveslove, andsweetness, and for the most part Percival is perfectly happy to give him just that. He is not an unreasonable man. This is the best compromise, truly, for both of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/gifts).



> For [writingramblr](https://sozdanie-gryazi-eternal.tumblr.com/), who wanted watersports and somnophilia and utter filth. Unless it's been previously mutually agreed upon & consented, there is an inherent lack of consent in somnophilia, and rest assured Percival doesn't ask for permission. So this has been tagged non-con. **This fic is not fluffy, or nice, and contains stuff that may be triggering**. I've warned you. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

 

Being the sweet, trusting boy that he is, Credence doesn’t question the extra vial sitting beside his dinnerplate. After all, there are already so many – nutritional potions, bone-strengthening potions, potions to encourage muscle growth and immunity – that one little pale blue vial hardly seems noteworthy. He does drink it last, though, Percival notes with an anxious twist to his stomach.

“Oh!” Credence says, after his milk white throat has swallowed down the last of the potion, “It’s so sweet!”

“Sweets for the sweet,” Percival says kindly, tracing his thumb along the boy’s cheek. As usual, Credence blushes prettily, turning his head into Percival’s hand, a kitten seeking out a caress. Percival gives it to him; he could not deny his darling.

He makes sure to refill Credence’s glass of water, once, twice. Discreetly, he flicks his fingers every time Credence gulps it down, a gentle iteration of a Thirsting Hex that he guiltily cancels after Credence’s fourth glass of water. In silent apology, he presses a soft kiss to Credence’s cheek and does all the tidying up when they’re finished eating.

After dinner, they sit in front of the fireplace. Credence has a novel open on his chest, his head in Percival’s lap; every once in a while, he turns a page. Percival is pretending to read through a series of Auror reports, but he isn’t taking in any more than every sixth word or so. His attention is focused on the fey, bewitching creature laid out beside him. Credence nibbles absently at his lower lip, the crease on his brow shallowing and deepening in turns as he reads.

Soon, he’s trying to stifle his yawns behind the sleeve of his white cashmere sweater. His eyelids droop, and the pages turn less and less. By the time Percival’s begun his second report, the book lies abandoned on Credence’s chest, pages down, and he turns to nuzzle against Percival’s stomach.

“Tired, my angel?” Percival asks. He’s trying to hide the tremor in his voice, the clamminess of his palms. Through his slacks, he’s half-hard, but Credence is so sleepy he hardly notices.

“Y-Y-Yes,” his sweet boy replies through a kittenish yawn. Percival wills himself to think of anything other than the sight of those lips, stretched out and flushed, his pink tongue darting out to sweep the corner of his mouth, the agonising sight of his throat and teeth.

“Bed, little one?” he asks instead. Credence blinks up at him, mouth curling into a little smile, eyes glittering.

He presses his cheek to Graves’ stomach again, eyelids sliding shut. “Do you think you could – carry me?” he mumbles into Graves’ torso. “I’m sorry. I’m so – ti-i-i-ired,” he says around another wide yawn.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Percival says. He takes Credence’s book and marks the page, setting it down on the coffee table before gathering the boy up easily into his arms. His darling will never be as large as he is; even after months of good food and nutritional potions, he can at best be described as slender.

He hitches Credence up into his arms, taking the opportunity to slide his hand up his boy’s back, the other settled firmly onto his ass through the pretence of lifting him up and cradling him in the cage of his embrace. Credence smiles against his neck, pressing sleepy little kisses against his throat. With each step on the stair, Credence grows quieter. When they reach the landing, and then the bedroom, Percival can only just feel him shifting beneath his hands.

“Will you let me undress you?” Percival asks, setting his precious cargo on top of the bedsheets. Credence nods in reply, but he’s already gone, long sooty eyelashes shuttered down against his cheeks. Percival watches as his sweetheart’s lips open and close, once, twice; he sighs gently, and then settles.

Percival takes a moment to admire his darling. He’s wearing the clothes Percival has bought for him, from the white cashmere sweater to the silk underwear; his hair, shining black curls, drips out across the pillow. Lit like this, by the light of the moon streaming in through the window, Percival thinks he knows what Icarus felt that made him fly too close to the sun. For this boy, he would do anything.

He takes his time rolling the sweater up, carefully pulling Credence’s arms free from the sleeves. He unbuttons the shirt slowly, his breath catching inside his chest every time another inch of creamy skin is revealed. When his wine-dark nipples come into sight, Percival can’t help himself; he leans forward and kisses one, a chaste and gentle press of his lips against skin.

Above his head, Credence shifts against the sheets.

The trousers are next. The buttons slip free easily, and Percival is free to ease the fabric down each long leg, kissing the belly of each muscle, the path of each blue vein. When he rolls the cuffs over his bare feet, his darling boy is left undressed on top of the sheets save for his underwear.

The fact that _Percival_ was the one to buy him those silky-soft underclothes, little scraps of fabric just clinging to his skin, makes something inside his chest leap with savage approval. He divests his darling of the underwear, too, of course, watching the cloth whisper down his legs. In the moonlight, against the alabaster of his skin, the navy blue is black.

Before indulging, Percival takes a moment to gather Credence’s clothes and put them away, gently smoothing down the cashmere, the cotton, the silk.

His little love lies supine on the bed, head tossed to one side. There is the barest flush along the tops of his cheekbones; Percival chases it away with a gentle sweep of his thumb. His nipples are once again smooth and flat. Between his legs, his pretty cock is soft. Half-lit by the candles in the hallway, he is a Caravaggio painting in oils; the saint, asleep before a sinner.

He would never dare to do this if his boy were awake. When he’s awake, Percival wants nothing more than to _worship_ his darling, press kisses to every part of him, slow and sweet and kind like nothing Credence has ever experienced before. But the scars of his imprisonment run deep; some nights, he cannot sleep, a monster screaming inside his mind. On those nights, he wants nothing more than to see his angel wailing around his cock, spit and drool running down his beautiful face, tears clinging to his long eyelashes. He wants to ruin this innocent boy, wants to watch the come drip out of his swollen little hole, wants to watch his cheeks flush pink then red with his hands clutched around his throat, wants to mark him like an animal, piss dripping down his legs, and watch him blush in shame and embarrassment.

But he cannot do that. Credence deserves better. He deserves _love_ , and _sweetness_ , and for the most part Percival is perfectly happy to give him just that. He is not an unreasonable man. This is the best compromise, truly, for both of them.

He leans forward, pressing their lips together. In sleep, Credence’s mouth is so soft, lips the texture of the satin he wears against his skin. Percival uses his tongue to swipe against those velvety lips; he doesn’t even need to push, because Credence’s mouth falls open and he makes a sleepy little noise. Percival swallows it eagerly. His angel tastes sweet, the soft tart taste of the orange they shared for dessert and a heavy undercurrent, like dark chocolate.

He wants to savour this moment.

He nips down Credence’s throat, pausing at the collarbones to lick and suck, leaving wide bruises in the shape of his mouth. The sight of his boy like this, spread out on the bed, marked by his mouth, does wicked things to him. He continues down, stopping to press heavy bruises against his throat, his shoulders, his chest. _Mine, mine, mine,_ each bruise reads.

He traces Credence’s nipples. They’re a burst of colour against the rest of him; rosy dark, almost the exact colour of the head of his lovely cock. Percival kisses one, huffing a laugh when it hardens under his lips. He sucks it _hard,_ rolls it between his teeth, silk inside his mouth. A little strangled noise escapes his darling’s throat. If Credence were awake, surely he would shriek and push him away, but that was the purpose of the potion.

Guiltily, he pushes the thought away.

He pulls away, plucking the nipple between his thumb and his forefinger, drawing it up and away from Credence’s chest. Even in sleep, his body still bows, arching up, instinctively. His hands open and close, and a thin line appears on his forehead. The flush on his sweetheart’s cheekbones is back. He pinches harder, using his nails to worry the delicate flesh back and forth.

“That’s it,” Percival murmurs. He’s fully hard now, and snakes a palm into his trousers to press against himself. He groans. No friction, just pressure, but the sight of this angel before him, looking so innocent and ready to be debauched, makes him want to rut against his own hand like he hasn’t since he was a teenager.

Between his legs, Credence’s cock is stirring. He watches as it thickens slowly, head darkening, balls drawing up. Here, too, Credence is smaller than he is, but Percival doesn’t mind. It gives him a rush to press their cocks together, rock against Credence’s body like a lullaby.

He dances his fingers down, skating down past Credence’s navel to trace the swelling length of his cock. He rings his fingers at the base, squeezing hard, watching as Credence’s hips shift and buck up. He does it again, smiling when his boy’s cock hardens further. He drags his flat palm up, to the head of his cock, and then swipes his nail up and under the head. At this, Credence really _does_ make a dizzy little noise. Percival smiles against the skin of his hip and does it again, pressing the nail of his thumb into the slit for a long moment before releasing, back down to his balls where he cups and teases, tugging and rolling ever so gently, then pinching, taking the thin skin and twisting it between his fingertips.

Christ, but how he can imagine Credence wailing if he were awake.

He leaves his darling’s poor testicles alone, stroking them gently, an apology. He brings his hand to Credence’s belly instead. He remembers Credence drinking the water at dinner, glass after glass, quite unaware of the Thirsting Hex Percival kept recasting with hidden little flicks of his fingers, the long column of his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Experimentally, he presses the palm of his hand down against Credence’s stomach, right over his bladder. In his sleep, Credence shifts away, knees coming up.

“I know, I know,” Percival says gently, pressing down harder. Credence’s lips twist into a frown and Percival can’t bear it; he moves back and swoops down to kiss where his palm had dug in, stroking down his legs until his knees relax again, legs slightly parted.

He lays his head over the junction of Credence’s thigh and his torso, the artery beneath his cheek thudding steadily. He presses a kiss to the delicate skin there, and bites down.

Credence gasps out, a sharp little “ _Unh!_ ” of pleasure-pain that makes Percival groan, sinking his teeth into hot skin, gripping his angel’s cock harder until his nails bite into the flesh. His sweetheart’s leg twitches reflexively, trapped by Percival’s arm; he withdraws, laving his tongue over each indentation left by his teeth. “Oh, darling,” Percival says, watching Credence’s skin redden, fascinated by the purple-red bruising marks, so stark against the rest of Credence’s creamy skin.

Credence’s face is flushed darker, now. He turns his head from one side to the other, mouth open, seeking. He’s fully hard, hips arching up. His long-fingered hands twist the covers.

“Look at you,” Percival murmurs. He skates down his own body to his cock, gripping himself firmly. His own cock is larger than Credence’s, and thicker; the head of his darling’s cock bobs against his belly when it’s fully hard, but the weight of Percival’s cock pulls it down. He slides his hand down to the root, and then to the tip, squeezing and running his thumb over the slit, under the head. He muffles his groan against the abused skin of Credence’s hip.

Credence seems to answer back, a breathy little wail. In the half light of the candles from the hall, Percival can see a bead of pre-come swell at the head of his cock. He has the urge to lick it up, swallow down, so he does; he leans forward, runs the flat of his tongue up the shaft and then swirls his tongue along the head, not bothering to hide his teeth. He presses the tip of his tongue to the slit, unable to press in beyond the very tip of his tongue.

He switches to swallowing down, taking Credence’s cock into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks in a way that he knows is painful. He continues anyway, teeth skating down the sides of his sweetheart’s cock, into the vacuum of his mouth. Credence’s hands clench and unclench in the covers. He tosses his head to the other side. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes flicker and dart from one side to another.

Percival is driven, now. Every time the head of Credence’s cock nudges the back of his throat, he hears him make a little noise – somewhere between a moan and a squeak. He’s got his hand on his own cock, tugging hard, squeezing, the obscene slap of skin against skin. With his other hand he braces against Credence’s stomach, nails digging into his stomach, leaving five crescent half-moons behind.

When the muscles of Credence’s thighs begin to tremble, Percival pulls back with a wet _pop_. Credence’s hips follow him up, desperate for the heat of his mouth. Percival smiles, brushing his thumb over the head again, watching his darling’s hips arch and stutter.

“Good things come to boys who wait, little one,” he says, breathing hard.

He runs his hands back up Credence’s body, relishing in the miles of silky skin beneath his fingertips. He pauses only briefly at the nipples – sore, if the way Credence’s eyelids flicker is any indication – before continuing up to his lips. He traces the petal soft pink of his mouth with his thumb, dipping in. The rest of his fingers are curled around that sharp jaw, pressing up and hard on the soft flesh between face and throat.

His sweetheart’s mouth is wet, soft, warm; Percival rubs his thumb along the roof of his mouth, the line of his gums, the points of his teeth. He runs his nail along his tongue, in to the throat; the saliva here is thicker, and Percival moans, soft wet slick. Credence makes a choked little noise, and Percival’s cock, already so close, twitches.

Percival pulls his hand back, before dipping three fingers back into his angel’s mouth. He dips back to the root of his tongue, rubbing little circles. He keeps going until Credence gags again, then pulls back, waiting for a moment before advancing, pulling back, advancing, until he can fell slick smooth muscle beneath his fingertips and Credence’s mouth is pressed against his knuckles and his lips are stretched obscenely. He pulls his hand back and pushes it forward again, knuckles bumping up against teeth, saliva drooling from the corner of Credence’s mouth. He threads his other hand into Credence’s hair, yanking hard, squeezing, using it for leverage as he fucks his gorgeous face with his fingers.

“Christ,” he murmurs into the skin of Credence’s neck. He can feel the inside of his darling’s throat, see it distorting around his fingers. He’s mindful of his treasure’s breathing, of course, but he moves his hand faster until teeth scrape his knuckles hard every time he bottoms out, watching Credence’s head tilt back to better accommodate his hand. When Credence swallows reflexively around his fingers, throat contracting and relaxing, Percival groans and pulls back. Long strings of sticky saliva connect his fingers to Credence’s mouth, still half-open, lips swollen and shining. A drop rolls from the corner of his mouth, down his jaw, beneath his ear.

He wraps his wet hand around his cock again, moving with purpose, now. He kneels up, pressing the head of it against Credence’s lips, cock now slick from Credence’s saliva.

Credence’s poor cock is still hard, and he’s making little choked noises, hips rolling up and back. Percival smiles, all teeth in the dark bedroom. “Go on,” he coos, breathless. “Let me see you come, sweetheart.” Percival wraps his hand around his cock, working himself hard. He brings his other hand to the top of Credence’s neck, finger and thumb clasping over the veins there, pressing down, watching how Credence’s face flushes darker and his brow creases, mouth opening and closing, eyes flickering under the lids.

It doesn’t take long. When Percival relents, releasing his grip, Credence gasps in a tremulous breath, a breathless little “ _Uh uh uh!”_ , and Percival’s orgasm drowns him, filling him up from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head, enamoured by this debauched angel spread out in his bed. He moans lowly, curling forward, long strings of come spurting from his cock. The first lands in Credence’s dark curls, striping down to his forehead; another over his eye, spiderwebbing between his eyelashes and on his cheek. The rest paint his cheeks, his pink lips, his tongue.

Percival groans again; he could come from that sight alone, his come marking his angel’s face, obscene.

Credence’s face is still flushed. He looks feverish, and his hands are clenched tightly in the sheets. His poor cock stands up from his body, blood dark all the way from the root to the head.

“Oh, you _have_ been good, haven’t you, lovely?” Percival says, kissing Credence’s cheek gently, licking up a stripe of come. He smiles into his skin, hand snaking back down Credence’s body to trail his cock, sharp nails against thin skin. At the first faint touch Credence wails thinly, a glass wail against the inky darkness of the room.

Percival chuckles, teasing, tracing. “Go on,” he says coaxingly, but he knows his darling will not be able to find release without him.

Credence’s hips buck up, fucking himself up into his lover’s hand, desperately chasing something he won’t be able to find. And _fuck_ if that thought doesn’t make Percival want to come again. He’s not an unreasonable man; watching his sweetheart like this, spread out on the bed, so vulnerable and utterly at his mercy – well. He wraps his other hand back around his cock, fisting roughly, ignoring the sensitive head. Once, twice – and he can’t come again, but he releases with another groan, relief, piss streaming from his cock, rivulets down Credence’s chest, his arm.

Percival pulls away from tormenting Credence’s cock to press back down into Credence’s stomach, leaning his weight heavily onto his sweetheart’s bladder. With a little gasp – eyes screwed shut, mouth open, flush high on his cheeks, sweetly tortured – Credence wets himself with a high whine, sounding something like embarrassment, the mimic of orgasm. His stomach flutters; the muscles of his thighs flutter, legs trembling. Percival laughs again, in wonder now, watching how the covers beneath his angel become sticky wet, a messy little puddle spreading around him. 

“My darling,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around his poor sweetheart. He presses adoring kisses along his throat, against the bruises, up to his face. The come is sticky now, half-dried, but Percival doesn’t particularly mind.

They stay like that for a long moment, until Percival becomes aware of Credence’s skin coming up in sharp little goose bumps, the piss cooling against their skin. “Oh sweetheart,” he says quietly. There is knot in his throat, now. “Forgive me.” He flicks his fingers and vanishes the mess.

Percival presses his cheek against Credence’s, just breathing, just listening. If he breathes deeply, he imagines he can still smell the sharp smell of urine beneath the soft rose-petal scent of Credence’s skin. He kisses his neck again.

He tucks the blankets around his little love, languid, liquid in his sleep. He curls up against him, tucking one of Credence’s long legs between his, arms wrapped around his chest, cheek pressed over his heart. He falls asleep like that, rocked on the waves of his angel’s breathing, the tide of his pulse beneath his ear.

The monster in his chest is silent.


End file.
